Brain to Bookswas founded in October 2014 by Angela B. Chryslerin an effort to unite and organize undiscovered authors. Today, under the Brain to Books brand, Ms. Chrysler helps other undiscovered authors learn the ins and outs of marketing and publishing, by providing the very thing undiscovered authors need: opportunity.With this in mind, the Brain to Books Cyber Convention was born.

Brains to Books includes nine genres, ranging from Fantasy & SciFi, to Romance and YA. I'm participating in the horror genre and my guest today is author Angela Yuriko Smith, discussing Penning the Darkness: The Therapeutic Benefits of Horror.

​Dark poetry is a brilliant way to release negative emotions. Poetry allows us to tell the truth while retaining our privacy. I've used poetry in this way for my latest collection, “Escape Claws.” In a combination of narrative and poetry, I share my experiences growing up in haunted houses. While there were many, I specifically cover four houses, where they are and include photos. My hope is that others sharing similar experiences will know that they aren't alone. For myself, it's a personal coming out of sorts. It's my self affirmation: I have seen some terrifying things. I am not crazy.

I used a different approach for “In Favor of Pain,” my first published collection of poetry. The message of the book is that no one can avoid pain, so we may as well embrace it when it makes us stronger. If a hurtful experience helps me to grow into a better person, I am “in favor of pain.” In many of the poems, I was beginning to admit that there were real monsters in my childhood closet—and hovering over my bed. It was therapy for me as I wrote my way through the shadows and memory to find the light. The result was cathartic.

Poetry is a powerful tool for self change and growth, but there is nothing as satisfying as a fictional murder. I advise all my creative writing students to kill people they don't like in their work. Irritating and unpleasant people make perfect monster food and cannon fodder. The writing sessions where we murder someone we have a distaste for always produce the highest, most satisfying word counts. The side benefit of fictional murder is therapeutic. It's good for the soul to write 'bad' things.

I discovered this for the first time years ago when I had a terrible boss at a big box store. He regularly humiliated all of us, blamed his lack of organization on those under him and blatantly disrespected women. We all hated him.

Things had reached the point where his underlings were half-seriously discussing tossing a blanket over his head and beating him up in the parking lot one night. I came dangerously close to pushing him backwards down a stairwell myself. I realized I needed to manage my anger.

That evening I went home and wrote him into a short story called the Injustice League. Three managers die in that story, but I took particular pleasure and care to describe my real life manager. His death was violent and deeply satisfying. I wove details from his real office into my story so when his broken teeth were scattered among shattered glass and crushed peppermints, we all knew who I was talking about.

The therapeutic effect for me was instant. The manager never changed. His tirades, idiocies and insults continued until the day he was finally fired. He still tossed demeaning comments at me regularly, but I always smiled cheerfully back, picturing the bloody smear his face had made on his computer screen—fictionally of course. The only thing that had changed was my attitude, but it made all the difference.

The beautiful thing is that life is full of heartache and struggle, providing those that aren't afraid to tap into it with an endless amount of fresh material and energy. Fictional death of your enemies is a positive and empowering step towards releasing pent up negative energy. Just change the names and details enough so your story doesn't get taken as a threat and reap the therapeutic benefits of writing bad.

From “Escape Claws:”

From the beginningI struggled to climbwith fingers bleedingas they scrabbled on stonenumb from more than paingroping for handholds.

I wished for escape claws.I made do with what I had.

I look back and see your faceshining like moonlight in the nightstars sliding down your cheeksand I reach back to helpand I see my bleeding palmand I hope my damaged handdoesn't scare you.

I sing to you thenwith my rusty voice--a lullaby that has sleptfor too longdying in my throat.

Together we can scalethese bitter walls.Hand in hand ...Hand over hand ...Hands full of sand ...until we collapsebeneath the open skyand beyond the reachof this shadowed well.